


no harsher than the bark

by monado



Series: callisto [4]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Break-Up Politics, Brief suicidal ideation, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Introspection, M/M, Raiden is a dramatic little man, Raiden's Family, mentions of cheating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-07-13 19:19:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16024304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monado/pseuds/monado
Summary: Sam is many things -- a bastard, and a manipulator, and a killer -- but he is not a liar.





	1. linoleum floor

**Author's Note:**

> this wasn't meant to be split into chapters, but i'm writing so slowly that i figured i may as well throw up what ive got. i've been diverting my attention between writing, my portfolio, and a longass raiden comic, sorry if this takes a bit to update!
> 
> EDIT: topped up ch1! important couple thousand words added. it doesn't end all funky anymore

It’s snowing when Sam shows up at his door.

 

It’s July. It’s always weirded him out, the difference in the seasons. When he’s around, he may as well be his family’s walking furnace; he always runs a bit hotter than an organic, seeing as how much his systems have to do to keep him upright. Even so, the facade of real skin on his hands tells him he should feel chilly, so he does, just a bit, as his fingers seize up.

 

Sam smiles. “Fancy meeting you h-” is all he manages to get out before Jack twists and slams him against his home.

 

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?” His voice is snarling, spitting in a way that he should be restraining at home.

 

But Sam isn’t Rose, and the sight of him on his _family’s property_ strikes a match against the tenuous wooden cage constructed around his core. How _dare_ he show his face here? How dare he intrude on Jack’s life, even more than he already has?

 

Raiden’s hands are sinking into his unarmoured windpipe. Sam chokes, splutters, bangs his palm against Jack’s forearm. He relaxes his grip methodically -- just enough to breathe, not enough to be even remotely comfortable -- and lets Sam cough.

 

“Jesus,” is the first thing he says. It makes Jack’s blood boil. What did he _expect?_ Did he want Jack to welcome him with open arms, accept his monumental intrusion happily? His fingers twitch tighter. He has to struggle to maintain his control. “Can’t an old friend come to catch up?”

 

It’s such a presumptuous statement, so worthy of aggression that Raiden is scandalized; his muscles slacken and he lets him go. Sam hunches over a minute, rubbing his throat.

 

“How did you find this place?” Jack’s limbs feel held tight with elastics -- his systems had immediately kicked into fight mode at the surge of adrenaline, and he aches to relieve the tension. (And how he would, were he facing Sam a year ago.)

 

Sam probably tries to laugh, but kind of just clears his throat instead. He casts a wry glance up at Jack. “Don’t insult me,” he rasps. Jack’s fists are starting to creak from how tightly they’re balled. “I had enough details to figure it out.”

 

And that sends him into a security-minded panic for a fraction of a second before he remembers. They’d been sitting in a kitchen, one of many they’d passed through over the months, conducting an experiment, as Sam put it: to find out if Jack could get drunk. Two packs of beer later, the answer turned out to be yes, and Sam, the bastard, milked his lack of filter for all it was worth. He pried and prodded, entirely sober, and came away knowing far too much about Jack’s past. Jack was pissed the next day, but it crumbled into something else against his will when Sam “evened the score” by telling him all about his family.

 

The memory from that point on is rose-tinted and heavy, stained by the cool breeze of fall and the creaking of metal plates.

 

Those days are long gone. Jack shakes his head, letting the fires flare back up. “That doesn’t tell me why the _hell_ you thought it would be a good idea to come here.”

 

Sam levels a gaze at him, assessing and too familiar. “I have reason to believe your family may be in danger.”

 

And Sam is many things -- a bastard, and a manipulator, and a killer -- but he is not a liar.

 

He dodges Rose and her questions on his way back into the house, runs up to their room three steps at a time. He pulls out his visor, hastily jams it on, snaps it shut fast enough that it bangs instead of clicking. He’s called the line to Boris before he has the audio system plugged into his neck.

 

Jack’s systems whir and groan in a mockery of a frantic heart as he waits. It takes a few rings for him to pick up, audio-only.

 

“Raiden? It’s--”

 

“Boris, requesting security detail to my location ASAP.”

 

A beat. “Raiden? What is happening?”

 

“A contract. I’m requesting a contract -- I’ll pay, I just need the security, and as soon as possible.”

 

Boris is quiet for a second, but only a second. “ _Da_. Right away. How many?”

 

This gives Raiden pause. “Enough to protect- two civilians.”

 

“Raiden. This is your family, yes?” He cringes. “I can tell. Two civilians require much less protection than _your family_. With someone of… your notoriety… nearby.”

 

He knows Boris realized his misstep immediately. “Not-- I didn’t mean it like that, I-”

 

“It’s fine, Boris. I know I have a target on my back.” He glances at the floor. It’s clean, bright wooden paneling. He’s standing on the end of a trail of scores, looking almost as if a cat skidded by one too many times. His feet are skinned, at the moment, but now is far from the only time he’s bolted to his supply closet. “Can you dispatch the men as soon as possible?”

 

“Yes, Raiden.” Relief is palpable in his voice. “Contact me with details when you can.”

 

“Right.” He’s already pivoted on his heel, plotting his course to John and to the saferoom from there.

 

“And, _tovarich --_ don’t worry about the costs. God knows how many times you’ve saved our sorry asses.” It’s some small levity, but it’s done with tact.

 

“Appreciate it, Boris.” He does. “Raiden out.”

 

His visor shows three silhouettes in the room; John’s on his bed, Rose is sitting next to him, and Sam is at the doorway. Rose’s pose, indicated in ruby red, seems to show that she’s keeping an eye on Sam while still talking to their son. Raiden has no doubts in Rose’s ability to give Sam the slip, if she wanted to.

 

When he rounds the corner, John starts, looks at him owlishly. Every time he sees the boy he finds something new -- he’s looking more and more like Jack did, at his age. The set of his jaw is what makes Raiden uncomfortable, this time, but he can't and doesn't linger on it. “Sam,” he barks, and all eyes shift to the interloper. Sam straightens up, hand resting on Murasama. Out of the corner of his eye, Raiden notices John staring at the blade.

 

“Right.” He cocks his hip to the side, pose attentive but careful not to alarm. His eyes dart to John, then to Rose, and finally to Raiden. “Shall we talk in the… kitchen?”

 

The suggestion implies that they're not at immediate risk -- he would be more urgent otherwise. Raiden relaxes a fraction. Sharing a glance with Rose, Raiden nods, hums an affirmative. He watches her kiss John’s head before he leads the way.

 

The kitchen is quaint. It’s simple in design, but cluttered in function -- Rose’s influence. Raiden pushes the miscellany to the end of the table with his forearm before sitting down at the island, on the seat custom ordered to bear his weight. Rose gives him a quick sheepish look before sitting next to him. Sam’s at the stool across.

 

Sam folds his arms on the table. He nods his head in the direction of the hallway. “Raiden, keep an eye on him.” He raises an eyebrow. “Gives me the impression he might listen in.”

 

Raiden frowns. He’s not known little John to eavesdrop -- but then again, he reminds himself, he hardly knows him. Reluctantly, not wanting to seem suspicious of his own child but wary of the subject about to be discussed, he snaps his visor on and turns his head.

 

Sure enough, a heat signature reveals a small frame, ear to the wall.

 

Jack sighs. “Let’s go outside,” he says, but stops when Rose puts her hand on his arm. It’s soft and gentle, like it always is.

 

Her eyes are only dark in their colour; they’re kind, understanding ( _not_ pitying, he has to remind himself). “Jack.” She blinks. “Why don’t you explain to John?”

 

Jack blinks back. “Explain what?” He feels a surge of frustration, not only because of all the planning he should be doing _right now,_ but also because he still needs Rose to tell him how to be a parent.

 

Rose is ever patient. “Tell him an abbreviated version. Tell him he’ll be told more later.” It’s pointed, just a bit. It stings. He knows how little he tells his family, knows it does more harm than good.

 

“I… Rose, we’re in _danger._ ” He looks to Sam, gestures at him to speak. Sam quirks an eyebrow, and his look is easily interpreted: listen to your wife, Jack. He bristles. Looks back to Rose. She’s still staring at him. He sighs aggressively. “Okay, just- just give me a second.”

 

He slides off the chair, padding up to the door quickly. He cracks the door open none too gently (they _are_ in _danger_ no matter the level of urgency) and looks down to see John peering up at him with a kind of bashful insistence in his eyes. He’s not sorry to be caught, then.

 

It almost makes Jack smile. “Hey, kid.” He reaches down, ruffles his hair. John scrunches his nose all the while. “We’ve just gotta talk about something- something serious. Me and Mom will tell you about it after.” John stares. “Deal?”

 

A beat passes and John nods. He wanders over to his bed, sits down, stares at Jack. He gets the hint.

 

He can’t stop himself from feeling embarrassed as he walks back towards the kitchen. Rose is smiling at him all approving-like, and Sam has something probing in his eyes. Jack’s blood simmers. He shouldn’t be congratulated for doing the bare minimum for his child, but here he is, garnering reactions for nothing.

 

He doesn't look at Rose when he sits down, shifts into a more work-like tone. “So?”

 

Sam clears his throat.

 

“One of my informants mentioned something… interesting,” he says, splitting eye contact between the pair equally. “A prominent assassination target stationed in lower New Zealand. A family. To be used as leverage towards a bigger target.”

 

Dread and inaction prickle outwards from Raiden’s chest. He starts jittering his leg up and down under the table. “But- this place is secure!” He looks to Rose, who seems equally as bewildered as he is.

 

“We- I know we haven't compromised our location. I've made sure of it.” Rose was trained in secrecy, after all. Out of any of them, she's the most capable of staying discrete.

 

Sam shrugs. “Nowhere is entirely secure forever. Anyway-” he tightens his ponytail, an action that means he’s tense, “-there's a reason I came here directly instead of just contacting you.” An unspoken conversation happens in the blink of an eye: even if he did, Raiden wouldn't have picked up. Jack averts his eyes.

 

When he peeks back up, Sam’s looking at Rose instead, which suits him just fine. He continues, tone grave but with carefully light edges. “I know the guys contracted to find you. You can say we… have collaborated before.” Raiden knows what that means; underworld vigilante contracts taken while working towards finding his father’s killers. Sam’s done many things for information in the past, and this is hardly the first time Jack’s quietly relieved for it. “They are… relentless.”

 

And if that appraisal didn't strike fear into him, the look levelled his way would. “I've known them to raze families, threaten villages.” His gaze darts between them, settling on Raiden. “Of course, I don't doubt your ability to protect your family, but one can never be too careful. Especially with these men.”

 

Silence engulfs them. The clean, frigid air turns spoiled, stale and harsh on the nose. Rose is gripping his hand. He knows he's not alone in imagining what could happen to their son.

 

He grips back. “So what do we do?”

 

Sam straightens. “We get you out of here.” He nods -- Rose does too. “Then, you and I come back and wait for them.”

 

Rose turns. “Jack, this- I know you've dealt with a lot, but I…” Her gaze skitters to the side for a moment before it swings back. “I’d feel much better if you were with us, for this.”

 

Jack looks at the table. “I don't know if I'd trust anyone else to do this.” He glances up at Sam quickly, who’s looking wryly at him. “No offense.”

 

“None taken.”

 

“But I don't think I’ll have to,” he starts, warily. Two sets of eyes hinge on him. “Rose.” He turns to her; she’s poised, confident, ready to take action. “The saferoom might be our best option.”

 

She frowns. “But… They know where we are,” she says, hand tightening around Jack’s. “Shouldn't we relocate?”

 

A terrible opportunity. “We- we should.” He tilts his head closer in, away from Sam -- his presence is oppressive, and he's keenly aware of it. “I know you're not happy out here.”

 

It's a cheap shot. A natural opening for Jack to swoop in and play the part of a better husband than he is. Of course he takes it -- and, well, he's not _blind_. Rose is too isolated. She has online friends, sure (though the number has dwindled over the years) but her passions lie in her job, a job she can't maintain this far in the middle of nowhere. She still has some old patients over the Internet, but it's not the same -- she hasn't told him as much, but he knows her, can pick out new edges of boredom and flat acceptance in her gait. Jack’s the one who made her like this.

 

Rose’s blinks stutter for a moment, but her mouth maintains its downturn. “That's not what I mean. They _know_ where we _are_ , Jack. Even if I loved it here, we couldn't stay.”

 

She's right, obviously. Guilt still prickles around his throat. She can read him, knows what he's thinking even as he tries to hide it, and all he feels is shame when she places a hand on top of their joined ones. (He resists the urge to rip it away. If he was _away_ , Rose could be happy, John could make permanent friends. Something selfish and cold clings to the contact anyway.)

 

Sam clears his throat. Raiden jumps. “Not to interrupt, but I believe I see what Raiden’s thinking.” He pauses until they finish turning back towards the table. “I'm assuming the saferoom is… well, safe, considering you brought it up?”

 

Raiden nods. “Infrared-secured, impenetrable walls.”

 

Sam continues. “Right. Then, it may be the safest place to be. We would be close by and able to monitor you.”

 

Rose’s eyes are lidded, the same way they fall when she accepts the necessity of killing. She just nods slowly. “I believe you if you think it's the best place for us to be. It makes me uneasy, but I trust you.” She turns her head to Jack, delicately.

 

He avoids the look.

 

Sam’s now sitting sideways, legs crossed, elbow braced on the table. The position brings immediate attention to the width of his thighs, the line of his back. He seems to be on standby, dark eyes boring steadily into Raiden’s -- he’s prompting him to continue, he realizes with a start, with a deep gouge of self-reproach. He can't be _noticing_ Sam at a time like this.

 

“Right, so-” He pauses, trying to craft a relevant sentence hanging off of those words. “I’ll stay here with- with Sam,” a tendril of _oh shit_ nudges itself between his metal ribs, “and you and John will stay in the saferoom.” Rose doesn't object. “I've called Boris to send in a security detail, just-”

 

“Call Maverick back.” Sam’s harsh voice rings against the hard surfaces of the kitchen.

 

Raiden glares. “Why?”

 

“These men… I knew them. Knew what they were capable of.”

 

His heel cracks the floor underneath. They both look at him. “That bad?”

 

Sam nods, once.

 

The next ten minutes are a flurry of movements borne out of suppressed fear. Boris is updated within minutes, records the details passed on by Sam with a vigilant hand, and promises to relay it all to his best soldiers. Rose is calm, collected, and commanding; not for the first time, a web of gratitude and guilt spirals at how _easily_ Rose takes to these situations. He's a lucky man, alright, even though he may be a shit one.

 

Watching Rose lead their son into the safehouse has Jack feeling a lukewarm combination of validation and turbulence. The underground room was always a point of tension between them. It's a permanent shadow, cast over the span of their home, of their lives -- a reminder of truths they try so hard to snuff out around John. Rose always knew it was necessary, but Jack knows the tension that drags at the corners of her eyes whenever it comes up. Everyone, even Rose, gets worn down by Jack’s messes, eventually.

 

That thought clings to his movements until the house becomes quiet and still.

 

It’s just him and Sam, now. His family is out of sight but not out of mind, and Raiden’s quickly snapping the last plates of armour over his fingers. It’s achingly familiar, the wire-thin dance tapped out with every beat of Sam’s boots.

 

Boots. He’s still wearing his boots. Upon further inspection, there’s mud all over the floor. Raiden can’t help himself. “Hey, take your darn- d-damn boots off.” He cringes, scrambles for something to fill the space. “Neanderthal.”

 

The laugh that bounces off the hallway sinks its teeth into Raiden. He aggressively regrets saying anything. “Aww, is that the most colourful way you could put it?” He stretches his neck to smile at Raiden. His lips are pulled back far, gums visible. It’s his most hateable smile. “Jack’s been de _clawed_ ,” he says, showily, wiggling his fingers.

 

Irritation laces through him as Sam turns around and wanders into his living room like he owns the place. “Hey! There’s a carpet in there!”

 

He rounds the corner to see Sam crouching to flip through his box of old CDs. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. My boots are dry, that was just from when I came in.”

 

Horseshit. There’s wet footprints denoting his path. It's not like him; he’s expressed so much distaste for “filthy Americans” and the cardinal sin that is leaving one’s shoes on indoors. Raiden’s been guilty of it, a few times, and after the second time Sam cussed him out he started doing it on purpose, just to piss him off. He's not even American.

 

At least he had the good graces to not step on the rug.

 

Raiden grabs the CD box and walks away with it. Sam hums behind him. Raiden puts the box on the table, and wants to never turn around.

 

“Ah, greeting cards kept on the mantle? Classic.” Raiden whirls around.

 

Sam has one open, holding it in the air. “‘May your days be merry and white.’ Cliché, but respectable. Signed-” Raiden snatches the card out of his hands.

 

“What the fuck, Sam?” is all he has the brain cells for, apparently. Sam smiles lazily, with a hint of something competent that characterizes the man. Raiden’s blood boils, indignation and molasses-like panic making a messy symphony.

 

Sam hums again. It's starting to chafe at Raiden’s nerves. “Well, forgive me for making assumptions, but I assumed you wouldn't want to _talk_ , or anything unnecessary like that.” Raiden tries very hard not to crush the card as he deposits it back on the fireplace, away from Sam. “I was just filling the time.”

 

The guy’s obtuse, but not _this_ obtuse. Raiden sighs aggressively, runs his hands up his face and into his hair. For a moment, he considers blowing up, considers letting out all his pent-up anger and irritation and other feelings he’s kicked to the curb, but he doesn't.

 

“The TV’s right there.” He points a talon towards the wall-attached screen. “Assuming you're not too good for our DVDs.”

 

Raiden turns around, makes for the kitchen. “Not even Blu-rays,” is Sam’s final quip before he escapes.

 

They absolutely don't need to be in each other’s company for this to work. They have their radars on, they have sensor traps set up on the perimeter of the property. The only reason they're not outside and perched as sentries in the bushes is because they don't know what tech the assassins might have.

 

Realistically, nothing is tying Raiden to Sam’s side. Still, it makes him uneasy, the knowledge that he's in his home, on his couch. Rose says the couch is uncomfortable, and she's probably right, since it's made so Jack won't flatten it -- it's a small comfort to know Sam won't be able to get nice and cosy.

 

A kind of dissonance descends. His and Rose’s first time post-cyborg (or rather, attempt) was on a couch, a nice one. It was interrupted by the springs creaking in a sick, dangerous way -- or, it's the excuse Jack used to back out of it, to claim he wasn't in the mood. Rose was disappointed but still slept holding him; Raiden didn't sleep a wink, hyperaware of the carbon whispering in his ears from a heart that no longer beats, just whirrs.

 

Everything seemed a barrier with Rose. It was never her fault, nothing was ever her fault. It's always been Jack. Raiden.

 

The second he was made to address his past, the second the Big Shell started going sideways -- he hasn't been able to get over himself. He's always felt misplaced in his own body, even back then. The tattoos, the brands they left on him; the scars; the slight, lean frame. None of it ever felt real. He looked normal from a distance -- less so up close, not that he ever let anyone see his body -- but he always felt he was lying, playing a joke on everyone around him. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, the only one able to see truths so seemingly obvious. It was almost a perverse sort of relief once the Patriots got their hands on him. Well, after getting past the horrible gut-wrenching despair and pulling the knife away from his throat forcibly.

 

Not that he still doesn't consider that sometimes. He has no idea what could _actually_ kill him, though.

 

A clatter from the living room. Whatever the hell Sam’s doing, Raiden has to resolve himself to not caring. They have at least a day until anyone shows up uninvited, so he's going to have to get used to ignoring it.

 

“ _Jaaack_.”

 

He can't help it.

 

It's immediately obvious. Sam found the small stack of records Raiden keeps about his missions (mostly there to prove something to his family). He's clearly dropped some behind the couch, some fucking how, and is standing over it in a shrug. “Is this thing made of titanium?”

 

Raiden couldn't give a shit about the lost files. He shoves Sam backwards, and the framed print on the wall clatters with the force. “You're like a little fucking kid,” he snarls, muscle fiber seizing up in anger. It's one of those vestigial reactions that he’d be better off without, but that they haven't been able to program entirely out of him.

 

Sam has faux-innocent shock on his face. “No need to resort to name-calling, Jack!” He puts his fists on his hips reproachfully, as if he isn't the problem here. “Is this how you treat all your guests?”

 

That's enough. “What the hell is your problem?” Raiden’s voice comes out taut and jagged. “You wanna talk? Huh? Wanna say something to me?” Bares his teeth.

 

All he gets in response is an eye-roll. Sam shakes his head, starts meandering to the side. “It's always like this with you,” he says, tone lighter than the words call for. “Antagonize, run away, then antagonize for having run away.” Raiden’s knees fall bent, ready and burning to lash out.

 

“What the fuck does that mean?”

 

A sharp gaze cuts over his own. “Getting there.” He turns his head, wanders over to the wall with slow, measured steps. Puts his finger on his chin and stares at the modernist lamp Rose favours. “Rose has quite good taste in interior decorating.”

 

“ _Sam._ ”

 

“Okay, okay.” He turns, finally letting a speck of something serious flit into his expression. “Let me ask you a question. In your interpretation, what was it that ended our partnership?”

 

Kaleidoscopic anger, frustration, distilled rage has Raiden almost reeling. “What?” he barks. “Was it not the huge fucking property-destroying fight?”

 

Languid calm dances across the lines of Sam’s mouth. “That's not what I mean, and you know it.” Condescension as he lifts a hand to his chin. “Ah, or maybe you don't. You are Jack, after all.”

 

He slams a fist right into Sam’s face. He stumbles, wipes his nose, hand coming away bloody. He wants anger, he wants a fight, something tangible he can respond to, but Sam laughs instead.

 

“Now _that's_ Jack, alright,” he huffs, smearing more blood across his face. “And I wonder why I miss you.”

 

He misses him. It's a piece of information not unlike shrapnel, lodging itself deep in his abdomen.

 

It’s unbearably annoying. “Get _on_ with it, Sam,” he snarls, curling his fingers, stance low.

 

Sam’s gaze sharpens, validating the snarl splitting Raiden’s face. “Alright, then.”

 

“I know introspection is _hard_ for you,” _condescension_ , “but really. How many times did you fuck with me on purpose?”

 

Sparks dance along his nerves, threatening. “If you’re implying I was manipulating you--”

 

“Oh, but weren't you?” His face is pulled taut, a forcibly neutral expression that's so uncommon Raiden knows he’s affected. “Didn't you want to punish me?”

 

The indignation makes him almost see red. “Punish you for what? You were the one who started being a jackass!”

 

“Did I? I don't know, Jack,” he says breezily, shrugging, “Hell if you ever told me anything.”

 

A twinge slips its way through heavy iron gates. He hates it. He hates Sam for assuming he had the right to know _anything_ about him.

 

“All I know is that you really _hated_ whatever was going on.” He pauses. “Oh, not most of the time, no. Not with my hands dug under your chest or my fingers in you or your cock in m-”

 

The elastics snap, Mach 5, Raiden’s aiming to crush his windpipe. Sam catches it, slams Raiden’s elbow at an angle, then he's lost balance and Raiden’s eyes can't adjust to being upside-down fast enough and he hits the ground with a deep resonating _bam_.

 

Sam’s looking down at him with something that reminds him of pity. “Case in point, Jack.” He starts to wander away. “Case in fucking point.”

 

It's a struggle, keeping his body from lurching forwards, from pouncing and forcing the words out of Sam’s mouth and into the ground -- he barely stops himself, he needs his help -- he is sorely tempted. Sam comes into _his_ house, _his_ life, throws a hissy fit in _his_ living room and-

 

Isn't it Raiden, throwing a fit? Isn't it Raiden who threw the first punch? Isn't it Jack who always wants something, who can never articulate it, who gets mad when Sam doesn't provide the impossible?

 

The single drop of guilt makes way for another, and another.

 

He stays on the ground, sits crosslegged on the cracked flooring. Sam won't look at him. His elbow joints feel out-of-place.

 

The frustration building inside him is less fire, more freezerburn. He doesn't want to give Sam an inch on the matter, but at the same time, he can feel his edges trying to fold, delicate and flower-like. He could easily smother it, crush it into nothing, but he stops himself.

 

Sam’s a bastard, sure, but it's not impossible he has a point. It's not like Raiden’s done any serious self-reflection about anything. He actively avoids it, really. It leads him down violet paths to dead ends that leave him angry and aching -- so he just doesn't. If nothing else, that part’s remained constant about him.

 

A snort from Sam. It's clearly directed at the fact that Raiden’s been silent.

 

“Disappointing, Jack,” is all he says before he strides into the kitchen. Raiden’s still seeing a bit too much red to call out, but the thought crosses his mind.

 

He squashes it under his palm, along with anything else leaking through.

 

\--

 

The sun drags across the sky slowly. Time passes at half-speed; Raiden’s on constant alert, straining his hearing, muscles ready and coiled and blessedly unable to cramp. The house cracks from the cold, a few times, and the bangs are loud enough to send him to his feet, sword out and sai gripped tightly, electricity tingling up his arm. (Monsoon was a piece of shit, but the sai is handy as all hell.)

 

He puts his issues with Sam aside. It's not important, not when so much else is at stake -- he’ll deal with it later. Or, ideally, he’ll avoid dealing with it at all, but something tells him Sam’s not gonna let that happen.

 

He busies himself. He pads through the light snow, checks every sensor. Checks the locations of Boris’ approaching security detail. Tests the integrity of the saferoom door. (He knocks on it first, a playful pattern to indicate it’s him, just so he can see his son, to know with his own eyes that he's alive and well.)

 

The rounds are routine, but each step is heavy, weighted with the possibility of life and death. Prepping for a fight is much different when there are things at stake -- Raiden doesn't consider his own safety much of a priority (and kinda sorta fucking _loves_ the pain), which is why he can normally enjoy himself, he supposes. Knowing Rose and John are part of the equation throws all his regular patterns into scrambled static.

 

Maybe that's a good thing. Keeps him on his toes. It also makes him slightly agitated when he smells food from the kitchen.

 

Only slightly, though.

 

Taking a deep breath, he enters the room. Sam’s frying something. It smells good. If Raiden could taste like he used to, he’d be hovering nearby already.

 

The response is instinctual enough that he finds himself taking a few steps in Sam’s direction. He's resolutely keeping his back to him, and a flick of red-hot races along Raiden’s nerves. Equally, a whole lot of _fuck it_ deadens any feeling.

 

He stops beside Sam, a comfortable distance away, leans back against the counter. The sizzling and popping of oil is loud enough to drown out an expectation of conversation. Which is good, because Raiden doesn't have anything to say. He doesn't even know why he's here.

 

Eventually, the hum of the stovetop is switched off, and silence is punctuated only by the hollow ringing of plating noises. Once that stops, there is nothing.

 

Sam is turned the same way as Raiden. He leans casually, plate in one hand and fork in the other. Raiden hazards a glance.

 

“Potatoes?”

 

Sam snorts. “Glad to know you can identify your starches.”

 

Self-consciousness and irritation twist Raiden’s mouth. The air holds, thick and impenetrable.

 

The scraping of fork on plate stretches out for a few minutes. Raiden could go, fuck off at any point and leave it at that, but he's cemented in place. He finds that he doesn't want to leave equally as much as he desperately wants to.

 

He darts his gaze Sam’s way. Something about his armour system is different. The colours are slightly shifted, favouring a less saturated look, and the form of his chestpieces are more angular.

 

“New exoskeleton?” he hazards.

 

Sam laughs, a few times. He glances at Raiden briefly, his eyes creased with incredulity, and then looks back at his plate. “Why, yes. Got some torso upgrades recently.”

 

He's going to play along, then. Relief is cooling, down to his toes. “Like what?”

 

“Smoother shoulder calibration, better nerve integration.” He flexes the hand holding his fork, light splaying softly across the matte finish. “Don't have to oil the gears nearly as much anymore.”

 

A brief flit of loss catches Raiden. The image of Sam, grease smudged across his cheek as he sits shirtless, arm outstretched, suddenly seems much more valuable now.

 

(Once he stopped feeling pointedly uncomfortable about the strips of cyborg tech making up Sam’s lower torso, Raiden started preserving mental images of a lot of things.)

 

“You too.”

 

Raiden hums. “Ditched the spikes. Didn't wanna look like a monster in front of my kid.”

 

“I hear you.” The answer is subdued, more careful than usual. Or -- Raiden chastises himself -- more careful than how it _used to be_. Sam’s not a constant anymore, hasn't been for little over a year. Raiden needs to stop thinking like they're still a team.

 

It's hard, when Sam pushes the buttons he always does in the exact same way, not to fall into that particular thinking trap. It's these smaller moments that Raiden needs to focus on.

 

Sam takes a purposeful bite, indicating his speech before saying a word. “So how's the kid?”

 

Raiden gets the urge to curl his toes, but he physically can't. “John?”

 

A wry look. “Unless you have any other kids I haven't heard about?”

 

Raiden forces himself to laugh. It's a dry thing. “I would hope not.” He looks at his shins, at the plating that’s so high quality he’s still wrestling his debt to Maverick. “He's fine.”

 

Silence. When he looks up, Sam is staring at him, an eyebrow hitched up. Raiden quickly glances back at the floor.

 

“I mean- he’s well. There’s… not much to do, out here. He plays a lot of video games.”

 

A hum. It's as good as a verbal ‘continue.’

 

Raiden shouldn't be scrambling for things to say about his own son. Frustration lights. “What do you want me to say?”

 

A beat passes and Sam’s eyes are guarded, but frank. “I don't know.”

 

It feels like there’s a lead ball in his stomach. Sam finishes his plate, washes the dish. It feels like they're on the crux of something, tilting rapidly out of balance again, and urgency drives Raiden's tongue.

 

“I- I better check the perimeter.”

 

It's a good excuse to leave before any confrontation begins; it does need checking. Sam just shakes his head, makes brief eye contact. “I was just on it. Everything is fine.”

 

His feet are stuck to the ground. “Ah, okay,” is all he can come up with.

 

Sam leaves the room first.

 

\--

 

Sam’s incredibly vigilant.

 

They stick to each other's peripherals, blurs of colour staunchly ignored, but whenever Raiden checks something he finds it in perfect and working order. Even the tiny repurposed Tripod sentry has had its set of rechargeable batteries swapped to the fully juiced ones. Raiden hadn’t even told Sam about it.

 

The security detail shows up. Raiden almost jumps one in his agitation, before sending them off as lookouts. As long as he’s not caught by surprise, he and Sam should be just fine dealing with the head-on confrontation, and then the Maverick cyborgs can hop in from behind.

 

It's not going to go that smoothly. The fact that Sam thinks they need backup spikes dread deep down.

 

But then again, he also thinks it's safe for his family to stay within the safehouse, so it can't be that bad? Raiden has a track record of fighting crazy motherfuckers and coming out of it alive, after all.

 

But it's not just him he has to worry about.

 

It's a lot easier when he shuts out his emotional brain and starts to think of the situation as a payload mission. He's defended cargo, clients, weaponry before -- he just needs to put himself into the same mindspace.

 

So he does, but not without an edge of panic, dancing along his nerves and quickening his pulse.

 

When he feels steel pierce his back, panic dissipates and the world pinpoints into a red dot.

 

It burns his wrists and chest and abdomen. Time beats in harmony with his breaths. He snaps his hands back, grips the blade with his hands. Nails on chalkboard as metal grinds against metal, but his grip is firm and the attacker can’t yank their sword back immediately. Raiden takes the moment to drop, lets go and sweeps his legs back and around, hard. He connects with nothing, after the unpleasant slide of steel pulling out from flesh -- the enemy must have jumped backwards, so Raiden pivots, whips his sword out.

 

The situation: one enemy. Face mask, unique cyborg armour, equipped with an HF blade -- too wide to be a standard sword, short -- a machete. It hadn’t pierced clean through Raiden’s body, but the internal damage could be a problem. Whoever they are knows where to hurt a cyborg; Raiden’s HUD is blinking and an angry exclamation point rests in the upper right corner of his vision. He hasn't collapsed or lost access to any major functions, so he guesses he has five, maybe ten minutes before he starts to feel the effects.

 

The pain, though, the bubbling and searing rush sparking up and down his spine -- he can feel that.

 

He launches forward, lets out a cry as he swings his sword upwards as hard and fast as he can. It's parried. He tries to strike again, again, different angles yield no different results. They take a swing at him -- they're precise and forceful, but it's nothing Raiden hasn't dealt with before. Searching for an opening, he jumps around behind them, centre of gravity circling fluidly, only to get blasted with a jet of steam, foggy and thick. He stumbles backwards, crouching; it's infrared blocking smoke. _Shit._

 

They're gone. The smoke detector is shrieking under the acrid burn of red phosphorous.

 

Raiden would have the advantage in terms of knowing the layout, but the assassin was able to sneak in undetected, so he doesn't doubt they've done significant reconnaissance. They might know where the saferoom is.

 

The floor cracks under his feet as he runs.

 

Two people are in front of the innocuous door. One is slamming a mace against it, great shudders booming through the walls.

 

He gores that one first. His blade pushes through a dead space in their exoskeleton just as they lift their arm -- it sinks deep through their side. A resonating howl splits the air and their friend is on Raiden in an instant.

 

He rips his blade out from flesh and bone with a hefty yank, barely making the parry in time. A broadsword. These assassins are individual enough that they each have unique fighting styles; Sam had said as much, but nothing could prepare Raiden for the size of the weapon rushing down at him. It's a wonder the person can fight competently in their small hallway.

 

He's left with little time to think, energy put into holding and bracing his sword with both hands, into sidestepping narrowly. The straight stab in his direction opens an opportunity; Raiden leaps, sends the sai for the jugular; they’re convulsing, completely open; his sword comes down between a gap in armour at the collarbone.

 

Someone says _motherfucker!_ but all Raiden can hear is ringing. He jumps over a mace, lands a slash on his way down. Dances around swipes with the ease of a predator, sinking claws in at every opportunity, cutting, stunning. Broadsword staggers -- an opening shines golden -- it’s tentative, risky, but he’s done worse before and he is so, so angry. He turns, pivots into the killing blow.

 

An HF mace is a nasty thing. It's sharp jagged tearing paired with enough force to knock the metaphorical wind out of him. He tumbles to the ground, missed opportunity stinging almost as much as the gouges in his back.

 

What stings more, though, is his arm, or lack thereof.

 

The broadsword was the culprit. Blood sprays and pools around his shoulder, where all that remains is a stump. His dominant arm. He yells, uncontrolled pain feeding into the rasp of his throat.

 

He is alight, agony and thrill and endorphins running haywire, and something clicks under the flood.

 

It takes about ten seconds. His foot grabs his sword. He jumps, shooting up to the ceiling, uses it to vault back down and pierces Broadsword all the way through to their toes. It would be simple, easy to launch the sai at the other, to clean up the fight immediately. So he doesn’t.

 

He leaps off the body, leaves the sword behind (not because he has to but because he wants to); meets the incoming mace with his hand. It jars his elbow, his plating. The spikes rip into the artificial muscle. A laugh tears its way out from his throat.

 

Glee courses through him, a raw thing, as he grabs the mace and plants a foot square on his enemy’s chest. His grip is stronger than theirs. He crushes their skull with the mace.

 

It's messy, not nearly as satisfying as a blade. With a raised lip, Raiden tosses the mace to the floor and retrieves his sword from the rapidly-cooling body.

 

The mace cyborg is probably dead, but their power core will just be in the first stages of shutting down -- Raiden swings down, drags his blade across as if making a precision cut to meat, tosses the instrument aside and tears the electric blue out. The surge of electrolytes peppers his blood with clarity, with hunger. He crouches down, picks his blade back up.

 

The artificial blood leaking from his hand coats the hilt in pretty pink.

 

He jolts. Panic hits him as if held back by floodgates. He starts towards the saferoom door, then looks down at the carnage at his feet.

 

 _Oh God._ When this is all over and done with, John is going to have to walk into this hallway.

 

Raiden kicks the bodies, half by half, into the nearest room and around the corner. It's pointless, there’s blood all over the floor. He drops to a knee, fingers habitually flying to his ear.

 

“J-Jack? Was that you out there? Are y-”

 

“Everything’s fine.” His voice is heavy, uncomfortable in the set of his throat. He clears it. “I- listen, don't let John see the hallway, okay? When we’re clear?”

 

A beat. “Right.” The sound of anxious, high-pitched questioning in the background both soothes and agitates his nerves. “Be careful out there.”

 

Something lodges in his chest. “I will.” He should hang up here, he really should, but he's aware of the steady flow of blood trickling out of his right side and his back and the pool of it that submerges the tips of his claws and he feels shaken instead of exhilarated. “John?”

 

Shuffling. His voice is clear when he speaks. “Dad?”

 

He licks his cracked lips. “Everything’s fine, John.” He presses against his shoulder with his hand. “Don't be afraid.”

 

He’s a coward so he cuts the line. He grabs his sword again and bolts back towards the entrance, feverish heat driving his step.

 

A blur of movement tries to take his weak side when he steps out into the living room but his reflexes are too quick. The parry leads naturally to an attack -- it shifts the flow in his favour and the encounter is brief and unenlighting.

 

Globs of electrolytes cling to his arm. It's likely the only thing keeping him upright.

 

Noises screech from outside. Raiden’s heart freezes and re-freezes when he hears a familiar yell.

 

Sam facing down three assassins means a few things.

 

One: all the sentries are dead. Two: it's not just Raiden who's having trouble killing them. And three: Sam is very much injured.

 

He's on the defensive, but not in the way where he commands the battlefield. The white under his feet is stained deep red. His steady blocking stance is marred by urgency, by a jerkiness of movement indicating exhaustion. And Raiden might be malfunctioning, he may be bleeding out, but he's still upright.

 

He can't afford any fancy manoeuvres, not with a sense of balance involving a missing arm. He clicks the sai off his hip and hurls it. The attacker shudders and blubbers as Raiden is pulled steadily towards them, sword attached to outstretched leg. He gets them through the shoulder, topples them into the snow with the force of his weight and rebound kick. The chest armour is too thick to cleave through with one arm and his sword makes an ugly _bang_ as it bounces. This one needs precision.

 

Raiden doesn't waste any more time; his sai gleams violet, and he’s hurtling towards another cyborg. This one is slight, has brass knuckles.

 

Sam will be fine taking on one of them. All Raiden has to do is distract the others until it becomes a two-on-two. Which is easier said than done, when your vision is wavering red at the edges with all sorts of warning icons stamped around the corners. He doesn't need an icon to tell him he’s running out of time.

 

He tries the same sword-kick, and though it's fast enough and he lands, they don't stun (exoskeleton only?), and don't fall as much as move with the attack. They swipe at Raiden, both hands out to grab, and he barely backs up in time. His movements are sluggish. He factors it into the fight.

 

He goes toe-to-toe with this one for a bit before speeding towards his previous target. He keeps the both of them angry, irritated and on their feet, away from Sam.

 

However strong his will, his body can't keep up. His HUD is glitching, now, and he can't figure out why, and it's incredibly distracting. He has one arm and he's lightheaded and his limbs are oversensitive to the input he’s giving them and he can't be faulted, too much, when he is slammed into the ground.

 

He braces himself for the follow-up impact. There's a sickening cracking of metal, instead, and he turns to realize it’s Sam’s exoskeleton.

 

He’s crouched before Raiden, sword catching one set of knuckles and shoulder catching the other. There's a substantial amount of blood dripping down his back, where a wide wound rests, exoskeleton caving inwards and piercing it.

 

Anger takes over.

 

Raiden pushes himself to his feet, trips the one incoming, cuts their heels. To the one Sam’s holding off, he cleaves off limbs. He breathes, electricity crackling at his feet and in the air and in his sword and up, up, into bone. Solid, fleeting, and deadly.

 

He falls to the ground, body completely drained. His vision is glitching in one eye and spotty in the other, variegated flashing creating something of a light show. It's never a good sign when his organic components malfunction, he thinks idly, snow sucking into his nose and chilling his forehead.

 

It chills him to the core. He is both up and down, left and right. Permanent, and not at all.

 

A memory of irritation creases his forehead as he hears his name, foggy and far away.

 

It's bright. He winces, tries to cover his eyes with his hand, but nothing comes to block out the white. Eyelids are as lead, but he heaves one open, impatience dribbling within him. It's darker, when he does, a comforting off-tan -- he sighs, relaxes. He isn't allowed to rest, though, as always, and a chill travels as he's shaken roughly.

 

“What,” he mumbles, wishing he had the strength to push against the grip on his shoulders.

 

The strength. His eyes tremble, and sound comes rushing back, as hard and discordant as a waterfall.

 

“Hey! Get up!” Sam is in his space, jostling him. “You don't get to tap out, Jack!” His cheeks are patted none-too-gently. He musters his strength to level a glare upwards.

 

Something settles in Sam. “Lazybones,” is all he says before setting Jack gently to the ground. He sits back on his knees, watches him for a moment with lit dark eyes. “I think that was all of them.”

 

Urgency. He sits up fast, head reeling. “John!”

 

A hand on his shoulder. “We’ll check on them.”

 

Sam stands quickly despite the injury tracking its presence down his back. He helps Jack up, gingerly and with patience.

 

Time could almost be slowed down. Everything is cloudy and sluggish, and it takes his best effort to stay standing, even with the support of Sam. He can feel his systems aching to shut down, but they won't, not yet.

 

They stumble into a tableau in the living room.

 

Rose is standing in the mouth of the hallway. She has both arms extended, thumbs to the side around the grip of a SOCOM Jack keeps under the bed. She is pointing it in the direction of the window, where two figures stand, one big and one significantly smaller, the large one holding the other in an iron grip.

 

Raiden notices Rose is shooting. She is shooting and the bullets are ricocheting, bouncing uselessly off of the first assassin he’d seen, the one with the smoke.

 

‘How could you forget about them,’ is a chorus in his mind alongside _‘shit shit shit,’_ joining to heighten his senses to a fever pitch. Gasoline and horror trail along his nerves when the assassin turns their head, looks at Raiden, moves to walk backwards with John in front. A wash of sickening colour darkens his sight.

 

It's too similar an image.

 

In his mind’s eye, he can see it. He can see a child, dark of hair and tan of skin and so, so different from John and yet carrying the same eyes. The same resignation, the understanding -- a plea. Gripped around the neck but unbroken and resolute.

 

It's too similar an image and he feels his grip on his sword tighten and loosen, he’s both here and he's not, and he's not sure if he's in control, but he knows one thing for certain:

 

He will not hurt John.

 

Time resumes. Jack sees nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s heavy. Everything is heavy. Air is liquid concrete, pouring down the throat; he wants it to stop, from above.

 

Sedation slips aside to make room. His limbs come into slow focus with all the grace of a yellowed bruise; arm, leg, leg -- his torso is not whole -- his head feels fit to burst.

 

When he is able to blink, sensation rushes down his back, through his ears, straight into his skull. He tries to sit up, finds it impossible -- in a panic, he realizes there is a gaping hole in his chest, wires tumbling out and partitioned safely so as not to cross. His arm is lead, but he raises it anyway, touches the faux muscle and touches the wiring underneath.

 

“Jack!”

 

He pauses. Rose is in the doorway -- he’s in their room. The white walls make Rose’s hair look even darker.

 

Helpless dread strikes through him, pitched at a hundred and eighty miles an hour. “John-”

 

“Is fine.” Jack’s stomach settles back closer to where it should be.

 

“And you-”

 

Rose smiles. The room is bright. “Look at me. Not a scratch.” She does a little twirl. The gesture is light, kind, but not mocking, and born out of calm.

 

She comes to sit next to him, in a chair that's been pulled up to the bed. “How long was I out?”

 

“A few days.” Rose tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Jack instinctively resumes prodding at the bloodless gouge, until she gently takes his hand, smoothing hers over it and looking, kind.

 

Shame washes over him, an electric wave that has his fingers itching to be free. Rose tightens her grip; she knows what he’s thinking; he lets the sparks course through her and into the ground.

 

Silence is enough to convey the situation. There are no threats. John is fine. Rose has no reason to be worried, and so neither does Jack. Sam-

 

“Sam?”

 

Rose’s lips tighten. “He's,” a pause that drains credibility from her following statement, “doing alright.”

 

Jack tightens his grip on her hand and she takes a deep breath. “He’s recovering.” She blinks, eyes cast downwards. “The only reason he survived is because some of his organs were cybernetic.”

 

Incredulity is lukewarm on his nerves. Raiden had given him that torso; damaged him so much that they had to be replaced with iron and metal, a hard panel wrapping the left side of his body a cold reminder of hasty decisions. He almost wants to laugh.

 

Instead he exhales. “Where is he?”

 

For a moment, Rose’s eyes flicker. “I'll send him in later.” A purposeful tone has crept into her words. Jack’s heart sinks, pre-emptively.

 

“Jack,” she says, sitting straight and tall at their (her) bedside. “The only reason _you_ survived is because your doctor was already on his way.”

 

His heart gears whir. “How did he know to come,” he asks, voicebox flickering, just a touch.

 

Rose smooths a hand down his jagged one. “I called him in after you contacted us.”

 

So she knew. As always, she knew. “Oh.”

 

“You worried me sick, Jack,” she says, and her voice wobbles, sending spikes into his chest. She opens her mouth to speak again, but can't seem to vocalize right away, breaths unsteady and wavering. “I know this is what you do, and you know I try my best to understand. But you worried me sick.”

 

Her voice breaks on the last syllable. Raiden can't sit up.

 

She breathes harshly for a minute, two minutes.

 

It's tinged with wetness when she speaks again. “John- I haven't let him see you like this. He's scared. He thinks this is his fault.”

 

“His fault?” Confusion twists with indignation, up through his throat. “What?”

 

“He thinks you got-” she wipes her nose, “-more hurt because he was grabbed.” Rose hunches forward. “I'm sorry, I -- the cyborg, they lured us out, they- they were,” _breathe_ , Jack says, with his hand, “Using a corpse to make- noise. I thought it was you.” Her eyes start to gloss for real, at this. “I thought you were- dying- so I took the gun and I- I opened the door.”

 

Stupid move? Objectively speaking, yes. But Raiden knows -- Jack knows he would do the same. He squeezes her hand.

 

His voice is heavy. “Everything is… fine now, right?” It’s less of a question and more of an attempt at comfort.

 

Rose takes a moment to nod. She swallows audibly. “Yes.”

 

They breathe in the cold quiet air for a few minutes.

 

“Jack.”

 

The tone is off. He can feel what’s coming.

 

“I don't- know if I can do this.”

 

He feels sick.

 

“I- I fully accepted the risks, I know them, and I chose to accept them, but-” She is deflated, emotions flat and tired, and Jack understands.

 

He can finish the sentence. “John.”

 

Rose grips his hand. He's struck by the familiarity of the gesture, the comfort it presses deep into his core. She inhales, shakily. “John.”

 

It's easy for his thoughts to slip into their normal loop -- he’s bad for his family, he knows it, and he should have left already; all he does is bring anger and heartache and he really _is_ going to leave, this time, and not be welcomed back.

 

Rose's hand is warm.

 

A blistering tension smoulders between them. They're both clinging, he thinks, to what could be their last few real moments. He doesn't squeeze her hand, can't bring himself to violate the serenity of the moment, but then she does, so he reciprocates it.

 

“Jack, we’ve always been- so close, but so far away.” Her mouth is curved in a downturn. She’s beautiful -- she could be a painting, old and fading and capturing a fleeting emotion that no one can quite identify. “I knew that was how it was going to be. And I- was okay with that. For a while.” She traces a finger up one of his knuckles, spreading the numb calm even further into him. “But I kept hoping… These past few years, I think I've been waiting. For something that was never going to happen.” All of her fingertips trail along his hand, now, and she looks up. “Maybe that was wrong of me.”

 

But it's _not_. “No, Rose, it's not _wrong_ to want your husband to be _there_ sometimes.” He wants to take her guilt, ball it up and discard it. “I’m- shitty at it. We know that.”

 

Rose interrupts, with good intentions -- it's a familiar tone. “You have a lot going on.”

 

“That doesn't excuse _anything_.” He fights with himself, tries to keep his voice away from a growl, tries to keep himself firmly inside the rattling little wooden cage. “I know I'm not- good. For this family.” He swallows. It goes down like broken glass. “I'm selfish to have clung onto it for so long.”

 

A hiccup startles his eyes upwards. Rose’s chin is creased, eyes too-present in the familiar way that tells him she might be on the way to tears. “But this is _your_ family too, Jack,” she says, holding his hand, covering it. “I- love you too much to pull it away from you.”

 

And yet, it has to happen. He smooths his thumb across her palm. “I know.”

 

Rose struggles with her breathing for a bit. Jack doesn't know if he’s breathing at all.

 

He tilts his head back, stares at the white plaster of the ceiling. “I think I was waiting, too.”

 

“For what,” Rose asks, after a beat.

 

“For something to change. To just- get better.” His eyes sweep to his shoulder, stubby with frayed wires sticking out. “But I couldn't- make it happen.”

 

He’s destabilized by the weight of Rose, wrapped around him, squeezing painfully tight. She shakes, just a bit, and when he brings up a hand, claws careful, to rest on her shoulderblade, he feels her sob into his shoulder.

 

Jack’s eyes slide shut. He breathes in the airy vanilla, of the gentle familiar scent of Rose’s hair. She shakes. He’s not sure if he does.

 

When things calm, Rose doesn't detangle herself right away. Raiden runs his hand down her back, pressing soothing circles that really serve to benefit the both of them.

 

“Jack,” she breathes, and it's not unlike a stone dropping in his stomach. “I- I'll always love you. Please don't forget that.”

 

It gouges deeper than anything she's ever said.

 

Jack is so damaged, so much of a wretch that the woman he loves, the woman who loves him can't even stay with him. He's made his wife -- he’s made _Rose_ commit to him so thoroughly that she’ll always love him, while offering less than nothing in return and fucking around with his former enemy on battlefields, desperately and without second thought.

 

“Hey,” snaps him out of his head. He looks into her eyes, unsure of what she can see there. She slides a hand along his jaw, over the mechanical cuts and edges and along his upper cheek. She laughs, trapped somewhere between a sob and a huff. “That wasn't supposed to make you feel bad.”

 

His throat restricts. He could say what's on his mind, admit to his self-loathing -- it may be the last time to do so -- but Rose has had more than enough of it from him. So instead, he tries to smile.

 

He’s raw, but oddly calm as Rose closes in again.

 

She’s smiling mournfully when she backs up again, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Besides, it's not like you'll be completely alone.”

 

Sheer cold jets through him.

 

“You,” he allows himself to say, before snapping his jaw shut, blood thrumming.

 

She giggles. “Jack, you're transparent.” There's no anger, no resentment, nothing but playful incredulity. “I know you.”

 

He feels rotten to the core. “I- It's-” Nausea courses through him, a torrent of guilt and mortification, “I just-”

 

Rose laughs at him. Indignation throws his eyebrows up. “What,” he snaps.

 

She just looks at him coyly. “I figured, hey, maybe that was the thing that needed to happen, for you to realize what you need to do. And if not, maybe it's what you've needed all along.”

 

The extent of her patience and tolerance may as well be a blow to the kidneys. “But that’s- I _cheated_ on you, Rose, you deserve to be mad, hell you deserve to be _furious_ , not- _this-_ ”

 

She shuts him up with a thumb to his lips. “Shush.” He shushes. “I've always known something like this might happen.” And if his heart wasn't already bleeding out in the middle of a desert road, drying out by the second, this would have done it.

 

“I can't understand your world, Jack. I can only barely understand your life.” Her hand reaches up to touch his hair, to pet it down and tuck it behind his headphone. “As much as it hurts, I've always known. It was just part of the deal.” Her gaze flicks away from his hair, and into his sunken eyes. “All that mattered to me was that you'd always come back to me, in the end.” She smiles. “And in a way, you'll still be doing that, no?”

 

His heart clenches, then trips, a baby bird struck by bravery and panicking at the last minute. “You mean- you don't want me to… never show my face again?”

 

“Jack.” She presses her forehead to his. “This is your family. Even if you've found someone else, even if I do, you always have a home here.”

 

And he is so _lucky_ , so unbelievably lucky, he can't stop his hand from clenching, from throwing his head into the crook of Rose’s shoulder, from shuddering.

 

His tear ducts _do_ work, he discovers.

 

John visits, later. He has no idea if Rose told him about their talk -- won't ask, either. Instead, they just sit, mostly in silence, a stabilizing grip squeezing his hand.

 

He hadn’t wanted his son to see him like this either, but there comes a point where hiding the truth from someone becomes less protective and more cruel, and for John, that point is knowing that his father is awake. Jack understands.

 

It’s poetic, he thinks with a degree of irony, that a miniature version of himself puts him both on edge and at ease in equal amounts. When he looks at John, he sees something he used to be; something he could never have been; something with endless potential. He is filled with cloying devotion just as he is filled with crushing inadequacy. He doesn’t know how to be a father -- hell, he can barely take care of himself -- and whenever he tries, he feels crammed into a tight, distinctly person-shaped mold that cracks and splinters under his chassis.

 

He knows how children think. He knows he’s being absolved, in John’s mind, in every moment spent sitting with him, in asking to read him something, when John tentatively, distractedly tells him about one of his games. It stings, just as much as it soothes.

 

On the first night, when he is alone, he feels ill from the relief wracking his body. He can’t tell if it’s relief for his family’s safety, or relief for being promised separation from Rose.

 

He feels a lot, really.

 

He and Rose had been magnetized together for the first few years, a honey sweetness seeping into every day. Time had tempered it, reforged it, spun it into something indescribably precious -- but somewhere in the process, Jack feels he was left behind. He loves Rose, he really does, cherishes the smile on her lips when he does something _right_ , but somewhere along the line he fell into the loom, and it strung him thin and tight. Rose doesn't click with him, anymore, no matter how hard he tries -- or maybe she never did.

 

Sam does.

 

Everything with Sam is always turned up to eleven, which isn't necessarily a good thing. It's a change of pace, though, being dragged along and toyed with and kissed so furiously he can almost imagine his own heartbeat.

 

Sam draws him in like it's natural. He can't ever recall experiencing anything like it, not with Rose, not with anyone. They're animalistic, rough, and tend towards desperate -- the polar opposite of anything Jack’s used to. He feels free when he's with Sam, indulgent in a way that makes him sick. (He accepts even this with glee.)

 

But it's not altogether true that he and Sam are so different from him and Rose. Just sex, he can live with -- he can lock it away if he has to, bar it in his memories as best he can (he’s an expert) -- but he's not oblivious. There's pockets of tenderness, of slow awe, of distilled comfort in every frenzy. Nothing is ever entirely rough, whether that means a gradual shift into slow, maddening fervour, or a brief glance shared laying side-by-side; whatever it happens to be, it’s _there_.

 

It doesn't only happen like that, either. Sam looks at him, sometimes, a secretive and searching thing that takes Raiden and grounds him where he stands, casts his will in red iron.

 

He wonders, equally, about the effect of _his_ look on Sam.

 

He hears shuffling, offbeat footsteps. Speak of the devil.

 

Sam looks like shit. He’s pale, naked from the waist up and criss-crossed with all sorts of gauze and medical implements. He’s limping, and putting most of his weight on the doorframe. Despite this, he smiles.

 

He hasn’t seen that smile in quite some time.

 

He manages to stumble his way over to the bedside chair. Raiden is struck with the sudden image of Sam, holding his hand just like the last two people in this room.

 

Ridiculous.

 

Sam’s smirk is vaguely pained. “So, you’re still kicking,” he says, voice low.

 

“Seems so.”

 

He laughs quietly, then winces. A hand flies to his abdomen, pushing hard.

 

Raiden can’t help himself. “You shouldn’t press on it.”

 

Sam looks up with sharp eyes. “Thank you, mister doctor.” He continues to press. Blood dots the gauze.

 

Raiden averts his eyes.

 

Relief and aggression cross wires in his primitive brain -- it leaves him feeling mushy and lukewarm in his chest. He’s alive. He’s very much injured, but he’s alive. 

 

He lets the feeling pervade his bones as silence blankets the room. It’s old, familiar, and not quite comfortable.

 

“Rose left me,” he blurts, out of a sense of obligation to fill the air. He stares forward, so he doesn’t have to meet Sam’s eyes, so he doesn’t have to wordlessly admit how morosely grateful he is.

 

Sam is quiet for a bit. Long enough that Raiden cants his head towards him.

 

He has a hand on his chin. “We had a talk, earlier.” He’s about to continue, dry lips parting, but panic and indignation drive Raiden’s tongue.

 

“About what?”

 

Sam’s face is tight. He leans back, gingerly, rests his hands on his thighs. “It was about you, of course. What else do the two of us have in common?” He smiles, and Raiden braces himself. “Besides our incredibly similar features. Who knew Jack had a type,” he muses, gaze wandering towards the ceiling.

 

Raiden is about to say that they’re nothing alike, but then he realizes -- brown hair, brown eyes, confident, commanding in bed -- he snaps his mouth shut.

 

Sam seems to have noticed, by the lilt of his smile. “Anyway.” It fades, and the tension creeps right back into Raiden’s shoulders. “She told me she knew what she was signing up for, with you.” Indignation is molten in his core, for a moment, before he shuts it down -- yes, he _is_ a lot to deal with, and yes, she _would_ have had to brace herself. Sam’s hand rises to his chin again, and he runs it over his scraggly-looking stubble. “She seemed- accepting. Ready to deal with it.”

 

Raiden turns his head away. “Yeah, well, she thought so.” He shifts uncomfortably. He can feel the weight of Sam’s stare. “She didn’t really _know,_ is all.” Frustration bubbles. “She’s a civilian, for Christ’s sake. A line is going to be crossed, and can never be un-crossed, when your child watches you kill someone.”

 

The contemplative hum he gets in response agitates him. “I don’t think that was it.”

 

He turns his head incredulously, eyebrows furrowed in a silent command to explain. Sam makes brief eye contact, then returns it back to the ceiling in thought.

 

“She knew about us. Which was an unpleasant surprise, to say the least.” He sighs. “I could tell the moment I was alone with her. But she wasn’t...” he trails off a moment, looks at the floor. “Angry. Hell if that didn’t make me feel worse than anything else.”

 

Raiden bristles. “It was my decision.”

 

A deep breath in followed by a rough exhale characterizes the tone of Sam’s next statement. “Sure, Jack, but come on. I knew.” His eyes are hard. Raiden hopes his are harder. “One of us had to be the reasonable one, and I’m still disappointed in myself -- that I didn’t stay that way.”

 

Sam acting like Raiden has no goddamn autonomy is no new occurrence. It’s a sharp pang, this time, spiking deep into him and raising his lip. “Leave me alone,” he barks, tired and upset.

 

The bastard just leans back. “Actually,” he says, far too much levity in his voice, “This is the perfect time for this. Since you can’t move, and we both know you’d get the hell out of here if you could.” He looks at him. Doktor is out getting special parts for him, a day's trip away, and they both know it.

 

Raiden’s starting to get pissed.

 

“You can’t run from everything, you know.”

 

He barks out a laugh, voicebox crackling. “Why not? Been doing it all my life, apparently.”

 

The bait doesn’t work. “And how’s that worked out for you?”

 

“Dunno. Something something karma?” He says it with an edge of cheekiness, trying to get a reaction out of Sam, if nothing else.

 

It seems to work. The lines of Sam’s face tense and pull. “Haha, okay Jack,” he starts, jovial tone clearly put-on. “Can you take your head out of your ass and think about someone else for a change?” Raiden snorts, but Sam continues, voice gradually growing in volume. “You realize you always start problems, and then let it ferment for _hours_ or even _days_ while you’re out doing god-knows-what getting your hands dirty, and then you come back even angrier than you had been? Right?”

 

Straight to the heart of the matter, it seems. Raiden is bristling, but honestly, genuinely lacks the energy to be emotionally fragile. He feels bruised, hurt all over (but at least he’s not glass). So he stays quiet.

 

It takes some of the wind out of Sam’s sails. He sighs. “I know I have my problems, too, Jack. But we can’t do anything about _anything_ if our every interaction revolves around you.”

 

A sting pierces through. “That’s not how it is.”

 

Sam raises an eyebrow, looks at him with a dryness that tells him he believes it one-hundred-percent.

 

He flusters a bit. “And even if it was, it has nothing to do with the problem. Stop bullshitting your way out of this.”

 

Sam stares at him levelly, shakes his head slowly. “You are a very difficult man, Jack.”

 

The condescension has him aching for a blade, aching for the cherry of Sam’s blood on his knuckles, and he has to forcibly calm himself down before he damages himself even more.

 

“I’m done,” he barks, turns his head towards the window. The moon is just barely visible amidst the dark spotty clouds. Outside, the trees sway, hard. Sam says nothing.

 

Raiden’s ready to wait him out, to ignore him until he gives up and stomps out. But minutes pass, and the clouds shift, and Sam is still in the chair, presence oppressive and big.

 

He hazards a look over to him, after a significant amount of time has trickled down the drain.

 

He’s fallen asleep.

 

He's fallen asleep, injured and vulnerable and bleeding all over the back of the chair, as if nothing had happened.

 

Instead of making Raiden mad, it calms something he didn't know needed calming. The lines on Sam’s face, under his eyes, are quieter when he sleeps. They're normally so deep, lending a contrasting weariness to his otherwise youthful vigour. It’s one of the things that drew Raiden to him, at first -- the promise of a story, of struggles to call his own.

 

When he thinks about it, what really draws Raiden to Sam is the uncanny amount of similarities between them; the promise that, if anyone could understand him, it would be Sam.

 

They're so alike that it scares him, sometimes.

 

It's in the tilt to their shoulders, the jump of their moralities, the twin grins containing far too many teeth. It’s in the way they move, rough and demanding and without abandon ; it’s in the air of a temporary residence, charged but quiet .  It's in the way they know what the other is intending, just by exchanging a glance , in knowing what the other needs just by the lines of their bodies, in being able to provide, provide.

 

But they're different where it counts, and this is where the problems start.

 

Jack wonders, not for the first time, how he always makes such a mess of things.

  


\--

  


Waking up to half a body will never be something he's used to. No matter how many times he ends up here, there's something fundamentally horrible about realizing you don't have an arm, you can't move, and there's a cavity in your chest -- he's managed to banish the instinctual frenzied panic, over the years, but it's still jarring.

  


It's not the only thing he's managed to acclimatize to; a turn of his head reveals Sam, awake and very much staring at him.

  


It doesn't have the same effect it used to. “Hey,” Raiden says, without bothering to open his mouth. This, too, is something Sam no longer comments on.

  


“Hey,” he parrots, voice low and gravelly with sleep.

  


They sit in silence, the clear early air tasteless and damp, clinging onto the frayed peaceful edges of morning.

  


Sam knows Raiden doesn't want to talk, so he braces himself for it – steels himself, prepares a nice spot in his chest for the incoming anger – but nothing comes. It surprises Raiden, almost too much.

  


It leaves him awkward and hanging. “So,” he blurts, immediately regretting it -- Sam stares at him all the while. Raiden wants to clear his throat, but the motion would be as alien to him as his voicebox is to organics. So he says nothing.

  


It's some time before Sam sits forward on his haunches, clasping his hands.  He looks tired, eyes weary. “So,” he says, and Raiden can't figure out if it's mimicry or not. Silence hangs, from there, for a few heavy moments. Raiden can see the form of Sam's tongue swiping across his teeth, behind his cheeks.

  


“What are we doing, Jack?”

  


It's a simple question, but one that frustrates him so completely that he has to take a deep breath. The agitation comes from a place of having _no_ fucking clue, not even the beginnings of an idea. It's a big question, it's been a big question for a long time, and he _still_ doesn't have an answer. “I don't know, Sam.”

 

Sam leans back, hands spread on his thighs. His eyes are stagnant, full of something under the surface that won't be uprooted. “Why does it have to be so complicated?”

  


That’s more than enough to light the fuse. “Everything we've ever done has been like this,” Raiden snaps, words coming from somewhere bitter and deep within him. “When have we ever _not_ had a complicated relationship? Can you tell me when? Because I sure as hell can't.”

  


Sam doesn't sigh, but it seems like a near thing. “But why _is_ that, Jack,” he speaks slowly, enunciating every word like Raiden is a child.

  


He snarls. The temptation of honesty teases at his throat like glass scraping along an open wound. “I dunno, maybe it's because I've never been able to figure out if I should have killed you or not?”

  


Whatever was lurking in Sam's eyes is eclipsed by a dark intensity. “Well, Jack, tell me how you really feel.”

  


Raiden grits his teeth, hard, to stop himself from trying to move – he'd just fall off the bed. Sam scratches at his scalp vigorously.

  


“Ahh, why is it always _like_ this,” he says, voice loud, cutting straight through the daylight. “You know, Jack,” he turns back,  voice descending, something sad and final in the lines of his mouth, “sometimes, last year, I would think to myself that I was the luckiest man –- well, not the _luckiest --_ but I was damn happy.”

  


It's simple, but effective. The cavity in Raiden's chest throbs.

  


“I thought -- I'd _found_ something. I thought we had something.” He laughs, self-deprecation harsh in the lines of his shoulders. “It should've been obvious. You're fucking _married,_ Jack.” He tilts his head back, neck unshaven and scarred. “Men like you are dangerous.”

  


And this -- this isn't right. This isn't how they interact -- they fight, they trade blows, they laugh and they dance; they hurl insults like knives; they don't have- _conversations_ , and they're certainly not forthcoming about their feelings. Raiden could never afford to be.

 

Raiden didn't have any concept of how _awful_ honesty would feel.

  


He can give as good as he gets, with Sam, but when it comes to this, he's left with nothing.

  


The inclination of Raiden's head tells himself he's about to say something stupid, as do the hushed warning bells, muted and chained away in his head.

  


His lips part, for the first time that day. “I'm not married anymore,” is all that comes out, weak and pathetic.

  


There's a beat, and then Sam laughs, unkindly. Raiden's limbs feel like lead.

  


Sam leans forward, into his personal space, with the full knowledge that Raiden can't back away. “And what makes you think I've been waiting for you, eh, _bonitinho_?”

  


It stings. Not only because it was a stupid assumption, but because that's the _nickname_.

  


It's what he called Jack whenever he was happy, and bubbly, and showering him with kisses, light and playful and impish. It's what he called him when Jack would feel lightest, unburdened, at his most human.

  


The sheets are white and wrinkled under Raiden's hand.

  


Sam stands up. Raiden resigns himself to having repelled him, again, but he just wanders over to the dresser.

  


He runs his hand along the surface, brushing dust off with a flick of his palm. He trails his fingers along the light oak, dances them over to the edges of the folded picture frame, then around the little grey sculpture.

  


“Did John make this,” he asks, back to Raiden and tone flat.

  


“Yeah.”

  


He says nothing. He picks it up, seems to examine it. Raiden can't see him do it.

  


“He really loves you, eh.”

  


He lets his eyes close, briefly. “He shouldn't.”

  


Sam turns, slowly, unreadable. The little figurine is braced carefully in the palm of one hand, cupped by the other. It's not Raiden, exactly, but it's a child's approximation.

  


“But he does.” He cradles the tiny Raiden, as carefully as Jack ever has.

  


He puts it back. Raiden lets out a breath of relief he didn't know he had. Sam meanders back over to the bedside. His limp is apparent.

  


Sam almost died for his family.

  


He's not sure what possesses him, but he flips his hand, palm up. Sam stares at it for a while, quite a while, before slowly placing his organic hand on top.

  


Raiden won't squeeze it. Neither will Sam.

  


“What are we doing, Jack,” he repeats, but his voice is low this time, and leaking.

  


Jack doesn't know.

  


The moment stretches, and bursts. He can feel the instant Sam decides to remove his hand, and something desperate claws its way into Raiden's stomach.

  


“Sam,” he says, simply. The hand stays, and then shifts, and then Sam's lips are warm against his own.

  


He can't breathe, when the contact breaks. He's hanging from a wire, high off the ground, and he doesn't know if this is goodbye, but it could be. His arm flies up to Sam's neck. He curls his fingers, slightly, careful not to pierce skin, and he pulses.

  


Sam's eyes flutter shut. He exhales, controlled. It's hot on Jack's skin. When he opens them again, he looks weak.

  


“What do you want from me,” he murmurs, almost against his lips.

  


And Jack doesn't know, in the abstract sense, doubts he ever really will, but he knows enough to pull his head down.

  


The room is bright when they part, eyes needing to re-adjust to the overexposure of light. Sam looks soft, almost, in the morning bright.

  


“Okay,” he says.

  


Jack doesn't let himself fight the urge to pull him close.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a million years and i havent written the epilogue yet. but since it's been an eon... here
> 
> woof this one was hard to write. i feel like i should remind that the narrator is unreliable re: how i write rose here. raiden has been in love with her for a significant chunk of his life and she offers something he reeeeally needs. (but maybe that sense of relief is significant somehow, raiden...)

**Author's Note:**

> next chapter will be the rest of the story, if things go according to plan. will try to update soon!


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